YEGOR: What an obstinate old lady! That sort won’t recognise the real world. Peasant is peasant and worker is worker.
b
The estate kitchen.
The two Strike-breakers are sitting over their food in the kitchen of the estate and talking to the Butcher.
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER, munching, to the Second: Anyone who lets his country down in the hour of peril is a bastard. And any worker who strikes is letting his country down.
THE BUTCHER as he pounds the meat: What d’you mean, his country?
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER: They’re Russians and we’re in Russia here. And Russia belongs to the Russians.
THE BUTCHER: Oh, really?
SECOND STRIKE-BREAKER: You bet it does. Anyone who can’t feel that – that meat’s not quite done – there’s no way of explaining it to him. But you can bash his head in.
THE BUTCHER: Right.
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER: This table’s the fatherland, the meat’s the fatherland.
THE BUTCHER: But it’s not quite done.
SECOND STRIKE-BREAKER: My seat here is the fatherland. And, you know – to the Butcher – you’re a part of the fatherland too.
THE BUTCHER: But I’m not quite done either.
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER: Everyone has to defend his fatherland.
THE BUTCHER: Yes, if it is his.
SECOND STRIKE-BREAKER: That’s just base materialism.
THE BUTCHER: You arsehole!
The Butcher’s Wife brings in Pelagea Vlassova, who is making much of her head injury.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: Come and sit down here. I’ll make you a cold poultice and then you must eat something to help you get over your shock. To the others: Someone threw a stone at her.
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER: Why, that’s her. She came in the train with us.
SECOND STRIKE-BREAKER: It’s the strikers did it. We were so worried about her.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: It’s getting a bit better.
THE STRIKE-BREAKERS: God be praised.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: They fight like wild animals for such rotten jobs. What a nasty bruise! She goes to fetch water.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA to the audience: How much more sympathy a bruise awakens in those who expect bruises than in those that dish them out!
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER pointing at the Mother with his fork: Here is a Russian woman who’s been stoned by Russian workers. Are you a mother?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Yes.
FIRST STRIKE-BREAKER: A Russian mother – stoned!
THE BUTCHER: Russian stones too. To the audience: Fancy my having to give my good soup to a shower like this. To Pelagea Vlassova: Why were they throwing stones at you?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA pressing a damp rag to her bruise to cool it: They had seen me mixing with strike-breakers.
SECOND STRIKE-BREAKER: The bastards!
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Why bastards? I was just thinking maybe they’re not bastards at all.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: So why did they throw stones at you?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Because they thought I was one.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: How could they think you were a bastard?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Because they thought I was a strike-breaker.
THE BUTCHER with a smile: So you think throwing stones at strike-breakers is all right?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: That’s it.
THE BUTCHER beaming, to his wife: Give her something to eat! At once! Give her two helpings! He goes up to Pelagea Vlassova: My name is Vassil Yefimovitch. Calls after his wife: And get the whole staff to come in. They can learn something here. The staff appear in the doorway. This woman was stoned by the strikers. There’s a bruise on her head. Here she is. I just asked her how she got that bruise. She says: Because they took me for a strike-breaker. I ask her: So throwing stones at strike-breakers is all right? And what does she reply?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Yes.
THE BUTCHER: My friends, when I heard that I said: Give her something to eat! Give her two helpings! To Pelagea Vlassova: Why aren’t you eating? Is it too hot for you? To his wife: D’you have to serve it when it’s boiling? Is she supposed to scald her mouth?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA pushing the plate away from her: No, Vassil Yefimovitch, the food’s not too hot.
THE BUTCHER: So why aren’t you eating it?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Because it’s been cooked for the strike-breakers.
THE BUTCHER: For whom, did you say?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: For the strike-breakers.
THE BUTCHER: Well! If that isn’t the limit! Interesting: so I’m a bastard too. Get that, I’m a bastard. And why am I a bastard? Because I’m helping the strike-breakers. To Pelagea Vlassova: Is that it? He sits down with her. But isn’t striking wrong? You mean: it all depends what the strike’s about? Pelagea Vlassova nods. You mean: their wages have been cut. But what’s to say wages can’t be cut? Look, everything around here belongs to Mr Smirnov in Odessa. Why shouldn’t he be able to cut wages? As the delighted Strike-breakers express their agreement: Isn’t it his money? So don’t you think he should be able to set the wage at two roubles on one day and two kopecks on another? You think not? What do you think happened last year? Even my pay was cut. And what did I do about it – to his wife – on your advice? Nothing. And what’s going to happen in September? It’ll be cut again. And what am I doing wrong now? I’m ratting on people who’ve had a cut too and won’t put up with it. So what does that make me? To Pelagea Vlassova: So you won’t eat my cooking? I was just waiting for one decent person to say to my face that no decent person would eat my cooking. That’s the last straw. I’d long ago had enough. Just one more straw – indicating Pelagea Vlassova – tipped the balance. It’s not enough to be angry and discontented. Practical measures are needed. To the Strike-breakers: Tell your friend Mr Smirnov he can feed you from Odessa. He can be so kind as to cook for you himself, the pig.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: Don’t get so worked up.
THE BUTCHER: I’ve worked in factory canteens, don’t forget. I left because their shitty job didn’t suit me. With his wife trying to calm him down: I thought I’d move to the country, there’s some decency there, and what do I find? Another shitty hole where I’m supposed to feed strike-breakers.
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: I suppose we can move on again.
THE BUTCHER: You bet: we’ll move on. Grandly: Someone bring me the big pot of beans. And you fetch all the bacon. Whatever’s hanging up. What’s it been cooked for?
THE BUTCHER’S WIFE: You’re not doing yourself any good! You’re going to ruin us.
THE BUTCHER to the Strike-breakers: Get out, you saviours of the fatherland! We’re striking. The kitchen staff are on strike! He drives the Strike-breakers out. I’m a butcher, and it’s me, not the pigs who’s supposed to get the last laugh. With his arm around his wife’s shoulders, he goes up to Pelagea Vlassova. And now go out, find the people who stoned you, and tell them their supper is ready.
PRAISE OF THE VLASSOVAS
recited by the estate cook and his staff.
Pay respect to our comrade Vlassova, sturdy warrior.
Keen and cunning, you can trust her.
Trust her when there’s a fight. Cunning to outwit our foes, keenest
Of our agitators, all her actions are small
But she’s tough, we can’t do without her.
And she’s not alone, wherever she fights
She’ll always be tough, always trusted and cunning
In Tver, Glasgow, Lyons, Chicago
Shanghai, Calcutta
All those Vlassovas of all countries, in their mole-burrows
Unknown soldiers who serve the Revolution
We can’t do without them!
9
1913. FOLLOWING A LONG PERIOD OF DETENTION IN SIBERIA, PAVEL RETURNS HOME
Schoolmaster Vessovchikov’s flat.
Pelagea Vlassova, Vassil Yefimovitch and a Worker are carrying a printing machine into the Teacher’s flat.
THE TEACHER: Pel
agea Vlassova, you cannot install a printing press here. You’d be abusing my feelings towards your movement. In principle, as you know, I am with you, but this would be going much too far.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: If I’ve got you right, Nikolai Vessovchikov, you approve of our leaflets, is that it? I seem to remember you drafted the last one for the council workers yourself. But you’re against them being printed? They are setting up the press.
THE TEACHER: No. But I’m against their being printed here.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA offended: We will note that, Nikolai Ivanovitch.
They continue to work.
THE TEACHER: Well then?
THE WORKER: Once comrade Vlassova’s got something into her head there’s nothing one can do about it. We’ve had a lot of trouble with her in that way. But not a soul’s going to notice. The paper has got to be out by eight.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: We’ll have to print extra copies this time, because they keep getting seized. It’s when they tighten up the controls that people start shrugging their shoulders and come to terms with all the filth and meanness.
The Teacher goes next door and starts reading. They begin printing and the machine is very noisy. The Teacher bursts in.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Rather noisy, isn’t it?
THE TEACHER: You’ll shake the lamp off my table! You can’t possibly print illegal material here if it’s going to make such a din as that.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Nikolai Ivanovitch, we too have noticed that it makes a bit of noise.
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: If we could put something under it the neighbours wouldn’t be able to hear a sound. Have you anything we could put under it, Nikolai Ivanovitch?
THE TEACHER: No, I’ve nothing.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Don’t talk so loudly! – The woman next door has some felt in her drawer for the children’s coats. I’ll go and ask her. Don’t print any more till I come back! She goes to the neighbours’.
THE WORKER to the Teacher: We’re sorry you’re not happy with her. Actually, when we brought her here it was so that she could get away from politics. We’d never have thought of installing an illegal press here. But she insisted.
THE TEACHER: I am very angry. I greatly disapprove of the way you exploit her, for instance. The other day I came home and had to watch her standing there with her old purse as she fished out her wretched kopecks to pay her dues.
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: That’s right, nobody gives us anything. It’s poverty makes revolutions, and what’s more they cost money. The Mother’s very tough about getting in subscriptions. That’s another half-loaf of bread you owe us for our work, she’ll say when she goes round collecting.
A knock. They cover up the machine. The Teacher opens the door.
PAVEL’S VOICE outside: Does Pelagea Vlassova live here? It’s Pavel Vlassov.
Pavel enters.
PAVEL: Hullo, where is Mother?
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: She’ll be back in a moment. Are they after you?
PAVEL: Yes. I have to be off to Finland this evening.
THE WORKER: Sit down here. We’ll give your mother a surprise. They seat Pavel on a chair facing the door and pose either side of him. Pelagea Vlassova comes in.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Pavel! She hugs him. He’s even thinner than before! Instead of getting fatter he gets thinner! I thought they wouldn’t be able to keep you for long. How did you get away? How long can you stay here?
PAVEL: This evening I’ll have to move to Finland.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: At least you can take your coat off, can’t you?
Pavel takes off his coat.
THE TEACHER: I’m told you’re fighting for freedom, but what about the terrible slavery you are imposing on your own party? Fine kind of freedom! Nothing but orders and compulsion!
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: You see, Nikolai Ivanovitch, it’s like this. We’re not opposed to those orders quite like you are. We need them more. There’s more at stake for us, if you don’t mind my saying so. Freedom is a bit like your money, Nikolai Ivanovitch. Since I started doling out your pocket-money you’ve been able to buy a lot more. If you spend less for a while, you’ll then find you can spend more. You can’t say that’s not so.
THE TEACHER: I’ll have to give up arguing with you. You’re a dreadful tyrant.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Yes, that’s how we have to be.
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: Did you get the felt? To Pavel: We’ve got to have the papers ready by eight o’clock.
PAVEL: Then let’s go!
PELAGEA VLASSOVA radiantly: Start the press at once so we have more time. What d’you say to the way that Martha Alexandrovna turned me down? Her excuse was: the felt was for the children’s coats. I said: ‘Martha Alexandrovna, just a moment ago I saw your children coming back from school. Wearing coats!’ ‘Coats?’ she said. ‘Those aren’t coats, they’re patched-up rags. The kids at school laugh at them.’ ‘Martha Alexandrovna,’ I told her, ‘poor folk have wretched coats. Let me take that felt at any rate till tomorrow morning. I promise you if you let me have it, it will do more to help your children than would a smart coat.’ But she wouldn’t see reason, the wretch. She just wouldn’t let me have it. Not a vestige of sense! She reaches under her apron, brings out a few pieces of felt and lays them under the machine.
THE TEACHER: So what’s that then?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: The felt of course.
They all laugh.
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: Then why all that complaining about Martha Alexandrovna?
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Because she forced me to steal it, because have it we must. And it’s very good for her children that papers like this should be printed. That’s the honest truth.
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH: Pelagea Vlassova, we thank you for this felt in the name of the Revolution.
Laughter.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: I’ll give it back in the morning. To Pavel, who has sat down: D’you want a bit of bread and butter?
VASSIL YEFIMOVITCH at the machine: And who’s going to gather the pages?
Pelagea Vlassova goes to the machine. Pavel looks for bread
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Look in the bottom cupboard. The knife’s in the drawer. This is Vassil Yefimovitch who joined the movement when I made my little trip to the country. He’s very strict.
PAVEL: Don’t worry about me, I even found a piece of bread in Siberia once.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: You see, he’s reproaching me. I’m not looking after him. I’ll cut it for you anyway.
THE TEACHER: And who’s going to gather the pages?
PAVEL cuts himself a slice of bread while the others are printing: The papers will be gathered by the mother of the revolutionary Pavel Vlassov, by the revolutionary Pelagea Vlassova. Is she looking after him? No way. Does she give him a cup of tea? Run him a bath? Kill a calf? Not for one moment. Fleeing from Siberia to Finland against the icy blasts of the north wind, the shots of his pursuers ringing in his ears, he finds no place to lay his head but in an illegal printing shop. And instead of caressing his locks his mother gathers the pages.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: If you want to give a hand, come over here. Pavel stations himself at the machine, facing his mother. They recite:
PELAGEA VLASSOVA:
Did they give you a bad time?
PAVEL:
All right but for the typhus.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA:
Did you at least get proper food?
PAVEL:
Yes, except when I got nothing at all.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA:
Where are you going now, then? Will it be for long?
PAVEL:
Not if you people go on working like this.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA:
Will your lot be working there too?
PAVEL:
You bet.
And it matters as much there as here.
A knock. Enter Sostakovitch.
SOSTAKOVITCH: Pavel, you must leave at once. Here are your tickets. Comrade Issay will be waiting for you at the station, with the Finnish passes.
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PAVEL: I’d hoped we’d have a few hours at least. Never mind. He puts on his coat again.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA takes her coat: I’ll go down with you.
SOSTAKOVITCH: No, that’d be risky for Pavel. They know you by sight, but they don’t know him.
PAVEL: I’ll be seeing you, Mother.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: Let’s hope I can give you your butty next time.
PAVEL: Let’s hope. See you, comrades!
Exeunt Pavel and Sostakovitch.
THE TEACHER: God will help him, Pelagea Vlassova.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA: I don’t know about that.
She turns back to the machine and they go on printing.
PELAGEA VLASSOVA recites:
PRAISE OF THE THIRD THING
People keep telling you how
A son is soon lost to his mother. Not to me:
I kept touch with mine. D’you want to know how? Through
The third thing.
He and I lived as two, but a third thing
Was shared by us both; we pursued it in common. It brought
Us together.
Often I have listened to children
When they spoke with their parents.
What a contrast it was when we two spoke
Talking about the third thing that was common to us:
That tremendous cause that is shared by so many!
How close to each other we felt when close to
The cause! How good to each other when
Close to its goodness!
10
IN THE ATTEMPT TO CROSS THE FINNISH BORDER, PAVEL VLASSOV IS ARRESTED AND SHOT
Schoolmaster Vessovchikov’s flat.
CHORUS
sung to the Mother by the revolutionary workers:
Comrade Vlassova, your son
Has been shot. But
As he went to the wall where they intended to shoot him
He went towards a wall which had been built by men of his own kind
And the rifles they aimed at his breast, and the bullets
Had been made by men like himself. Merely absent
Were they therefore, or dispersed; but for him were still there